“Major tactical ops at the airport are mostly done with, Mister President,” said Kinninmore. “We’re just counting coup on the stragglers now.”
“That went pretty quick, Colonel. Did you lose many of your men?”
“Our casualties were twelve killed and fifteen wounded, sir.”
Kipper knew, because he had been told time and again, that fighting in urban environments chewed through men at a terrible rate. But a dozen dead and even more wounded still sounded like a heavy butcher’s bill. He would have many letters to write when he got back to Seattle. He made it a point to contact the families of any serviceman or -woman who died following his orders. Culver argued that he could delegate that to others, but Kipper insisted in spite of the increasing amount of time he spent writing such letters and the emotional cost it laid on him. It was the very least he could do.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Colonel. I really am. I’d like to come visit your wounded if I could, as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, sir. They will appreciate that.”
The party passed by a pair of heavy wooden doors standing open to reveal what looked like a courtroom inside. Kinninmore, who was striding alongside Kipper with a helmet tucked under one arm, seemed oblivious to their surroundings as they turned again and hurried down a wide, sweeping marble staircase and past a sign that informed them they were entering the museum level of the building.
“I’m pulling three troops from the Seventh along with two marine companies and redeploying them here, Mister President. Immediately. We should have them here within the hour.”
“Three troops?” Kipper asked.
“My apologies, Mister President,” Kinninmore said. “Company elements; we call them troops in the cavalry … er, about three hundred men. With the Marines, we should have close to a battalion-size force here.”
More terminology. Kipper let it go and nodded for him to continue. He made a point of not interfering with the military’s decisions in the field.
“The thing is, sir, I believe there could be something more going on than the looters and pirates simply pushing back at you for trying to retake the city. The elements we fought at the airport were well coordinated, and when we arrived in force, they pretty much melted away. Conducted quite a decent withdrawal under fire and would have got a lot more of their guys out if we hadn’t had air support to smack them flat.”
Kip had a momentary vision of what that last euphemism would mean in reality: hundreds of bodies torn asunder by high explosives and white-hot metal. He pushed the images away as they marched along a curving corridor flanked by wood-paneled displays of Native American artifacts, feathered headdresses, buffalo-hide shields, tomahawks, and jewelry, all of them still intact. Thick blue carpet muffled their footfalls, and Kip could not help but notice that it was discolored here and there with the dark, telltale stains of the Disappeared. He almost wondered for half a second when their remains had been cleared away but forced himself to stay focused on Colonel Kinninmore.
“My S-2 got out and policed up the battlespace, sir …”
S-2? Was that an intelligence officer? The army has all of these confusing codes for everything. And whatever happened to plain old battlefields? Kipper was pretty sure the colonel meant this his intelligence officer had quickly inspected the remains of the dead and whatever entrenchments they may have occupied.
“… and I have to say we had a few disturbing finds,” Kinninmore went on. “Especially in light of the rocket attack on yourself yesterday, sir. Those Katyushas weren’t the usual dime-store crap—if you’ll excuse me, sir—that you normally find the pirates using. Intel says they were fresh out of the shrink-wrap from Yemen. And the enemy combatants we cleared out of JFK, they were using good new Russian radios and Chinese assault rifles. Type 56 carbines. We also discovered well-concealed command and control bunkers with medical facilities and housing for a larger force.”
Kip thought he saw where Kinninmore was going.
“You’re surely not thinking conspiracy, Colonel? China’s barely a functioning state after the civil war. And Putin’s got his hands full with the stans.”
The cavalry officer shook his head.
“No, Mister President. Or at least I’m not positing a conspiracy between those states. The Type 56 carbines could have come from what’s left of Pakistan or a number of other countries. My point is that the matériel was top-shelf stuff. And it has to be significant that it should suddenly appear, all at the same time, in our eastern theater of operations while the raiders, who spend as much time fighting each other as they do us, suddenly smarten up and start kicking it with battalion-level operations, all coordinated with the best comms gear you can buy on the open market.”
Kipper agreed with the officer that it did sound significant. But in what way?
“You’ve got my attention, Colonel. But do you have anything more in the way of detail? Something other than the equipment and … well, behavorial change? People do learn, after all.”
“They do, Mister President. They do. Places like New York, they learn or they die. What I want to know is who’s been teaching them. We took a handful of prisoners at Kennedy. Most of them pretty messed up, but we’re doing our best to debrief them as soon as possible.”
Kipper could imagine that debriefing would not be a pleasant experience for the captives. He’d long ago authorized the army to treat any pirates captured on U.S. soil as illegal combatants. The best they could hope for was immediate deportation, but summary execution was just as likely. Kinninmore, for all his Boston Brahmin airs, did not look like a man who would lose a lot of sleep if he had to execute a bunch of glorified looters, which in the end was all the pirates were.
“The thing is, Mister President,” the army officer continued, “I don’t think everyone we’re fighting right now are simple pirates.”
Kipper almost did an exaggerated double take at having had his private thoughts contradicted immediately.
“Go on,” he said.
“We’re also getting some intelligence back from Ellis Island, where the rocket attack was launched from …”
Kinninmore flicked the briefest glare of disapproval at Kip’s Secret Service detail before carrying on.
“… and what we’re hearing is that there’s some new guys working the city. Professionals. I mean real pros, not just the organized gangs from Russia and so on. These new guys are rallying the pirate gangs and paying them off with tribute and turf.”
“Any idea who?” asked Kipper.
“Early days, sir. But it doesn’t sound good. Some of the prisoners referred to them as fedayeen. Some called them jihadi.”
Kipper’s nuts did a slow crawl up into his body.
He was unfamiliar with the first word, but he well remembered the term “jihad” both from the days before the Wave and of course from the French civil war that had followed it.
“What are those fucking wing nuts doing here?” he asked.
Kinninmore shook his head as they reached the foyer of the building. The sound of helicopters was growing louder.
“Mister President, at the moment all I have are the first scraps of information from a very confused battlefield. I can’t tell you any more than that. What I can say is that this does not look like a flare-up or an ad hoc resistance movement suddenly self-organizing. It looks to me like somebody who knows what they are doing is pissing in our patch.”
Kipper found the colonel’s vernacular a strange fit with his cultured accent, but he supposed that Kinninmore must have spent his adult life in the army and so it would be silly to expect him to speak like a merchant banker or art dealer. He stopped just inside the building’s entrance, and gave the officer his full attention.
“Colonel, I remind myself every day to listen to people who know what they’re talking about. If you feel strongly enough about this to have dragged yourself through the briar patch getting the information to me, I am willing to listen. Right now, though, at this very mi
nute, we have people fighting and dying a few miles from us. First person I’m going to talk to when I get on my chopper is General Franks. I’m going to tell him to devote whatever resources he needs to clearing this city out, once and for all. This is an American city, and it is going to stay that way,” Kipper said.
“Hooah,” Kinninmore replied in soft but firm agreement.
Kipper continued, “I need you to write me up a report on what you’ve just told us and forward it directly to Franks as well as your local higher-ups on my authority. I’ll have the national security director schedule it as one of our first agenda items for our next meeting, which is …”
He looked across at Jed.
“Three days from now, Mister President.”
“Okay, three days. Is that good enough, Colonel?”
Kinninmore straightened his back and nodded. “Very well, Mister President. My S-2 has already prepped a report, with attachments. I will have him e-mail it to you via secure link ASAP.”
“Good enough, then,” Kipper said, extending his hand. “Colonel. Good luck. Kicking these losers out of New York is a higher priority for me right now than knowing exactly who they are. But I do want to know that, too. And make sure Jed gets details of where your wounded are being treated. I will be visiting them.”
“Thank you, Mister President.”
Kinninmore saluted again, looking marginally happier than when Kip had first seen him but still very grim as he replaced the helmet on his head. If they were going to be fighting in the city to the end, he was going to lose many more troopers. A thumping roar announced the arrival of Marine One, Kip’s personal chopper, now finished with evacuating casualties from the rocket attack. The Secret Service agents formed up around them, and Kipper was hustled out into the morning air, where oil smoke, dark and thick, obscured the sun and left a burning sensation in his nose.
Sergeant Ryan Peckham of the Marine Presidential Security Detail ripped off a perfect salute. “Good day, Mister President. If you’ll step aboard, please.”
Kipper returned the salute, still a sloppy one, he supposed, but Sergeant Peckham took no notice. The president of the United States passed by Peckham’s younger brother, Lance Corporal Justin Peckham, who was standing at the ready behind a multibarreled door gun on Marine One. It intrigued Kip why two brothers had ended up on his chopper, but he had never had time to ask them about it.
Many things had changed since the Wave, and Marine One was a perfect example. No longer a brightly polished dark green and white VH-3D Sea King helicopter emblazoned with the presidential seal, Kipper’s rotary wing transport was now a gray, camouflaged, and heavily armed AugustaWestland medium-lift chopper, a joint British-Italian design. The Royal Air Force had fitted out six for his use as part of a complicated facilities and equipment exchange deal negotiated under the new Vancouver Alliance agreement. Climbing aboard, he found the cabin was still configured for medical evacuation, with only four seats available up near the cockpit. It was difficult to hear himself talk over the thunderous noise not just of his aircraft but from the three gunships hovering protectively overhead. As he strapped in, Jed Culver dropped into the seat opposite and raised an eyebrow but said nothing, either. Between the Super Cobras of the Marine One escort force and the howling engine over their heads, it was simply too noisy to speak until they were under way.
That took less than a minute, and when they lifted off, Kip felt himself pressed into the seat much more firmly than usual. The floor tilted radically, and the Rolls Royce turboshafts spooled up with a scream. The marines flying him out of New York were not inclined to take chances. They were another sign of the radically changed times. Three marine Super Cobras flew escort for Marine One no matter where the president went. The marines themselves were no longer attired in the smart dress uniforms and white gloves of their counterparts back in Seattle. All of the flight crew’s members wore desert tan flight suits and came with a heavy load of personal weapons. Members of the Presidential Marine Security Detail wore body armor, standing at the ready by doors and window apertures that bristled with heavy machine guns. When they were safely away and the noise had throttled back some, Kip leaned over to speak to his chief of staff.
“Jed, can you make sure Tommy Franks gets that stuff from Kinninmore? Especially this fedayeenie-whatsit business. Today.”
“Fedayeen. And it’s already done,” Culver said, smiling tightly and waving his mil-grade PDA. “I’ve scheduled it as an item for discussion at NSC. Second on the list.”
“What’s first?” Kip asked, wondering what could squeeze out a report of possible foreign interference in the pirate war.
“Well, I’m afraid you’re not going to like it, sir, but we do need to get to grips with this Blackstone situation.”
Always back to Blackstone. Kip could feel his facial muscles tighten with anger as Jed held up one hand and begged his indulgence.
“I know, Mister President, that you think it’s near the bottom of the priority list, and having him down there running wild means fewer federal resources going into border security along the El Paso,” Jed said.
“Look, I don’t like Mad Jack any more than you do, Jed. But he was elected. And you may have noticed that we are a bit short of resources,” Kip said.
Even Tommy Franks had pestered him about the importance of controlling the center of the continent, which was part of why there was a heavy federal outpost in Kansas City. But in Kip’s eyes Texas just didn’t seem worth the aggravation, regardless of what the history books and his own advisers said. If Blackstone wanted to play out some frontier fantasy down there, let him have it. For now. He was still an American. He’d been voted into the governorship fair and square. As big an asshole as he was proving to be, he was a duly elected asshole and that was that. It wasn’t like a foreign state had set up shop down there.
“Sir,” said Culver, undaunted as usual. “We have to start looking at Blackstone as a major impediment to reconstruction a few years down the path. If we don’t get this little dictator slapped into line, we are going to lose control of the South forever. He’s not making any bones about that.”
“The whole Republic of Texas thing is a joke,” Kipper said. “I’ve been reading up on your briefings. They weren’t able to make it work in the 1830s, and I do not see how they’ll make it work now. Blackstone can bluster on about holding as many referendums as he wants. Nobody outside of Fort Hood is going to vote to break up the union.”
Jed leaned forward in his seat. “It’s ‘referenda,’ and it is no joke, Mister President. Jackson Blackstone was legitimately elected territorial governor in 2005, which makes it very difficult for us to challenge his position. It’s not like that last little coup by stealth he tried after the Wave. What’s more, he has plenty of allies in Seattle who would like to see Texas fast-tracked to independence. The reality on the ground, as the military likes to say, is that neither Blackstone nor his territorial legislature respects the authority of Congress or you, or the courts, or anything other than the threat of the 101st jumping in there to smack him upside the head. And sir, we are getting to a point where I doubt the army will be able to do it. For every officer we have like Kinninmore, Blackstone has three, and for every solid soldier we have, Blackstone has anywhere from three to seven, most of them disgruntled veterans.”
“I don’t understand why they’re so disgruntled,” Kipper said morosely. He didn’t understand at all, on any level, why so many former members of the U.S. Armed Forces had gone down to Blackstone’s self-styled Republic of Texas. Kip was taking care of their health needs and providing them with preferential hiring privileges and free education in a society that did not have much time for such things these days. They got fast-track placements into both the urban and regional resettlement programs. They were exempt from the various compulsory labor laws, yet they still went to Texas. Meanwhile, those who stayed under the federal banner often took advantage of the benefits while supporting the rump Republicans, which was
a real kick in the head. Not all of them, by any means, but a sufficient number to inflame his acid reflux on a daily basis.
“Different dreams,” said his chief of staff in answer to Kip’s question. “We haven’t offered them a better one. Blackstone has. He is growing and hardening his forces, Mister President, and if you’ll excuse me pushing the metaphor perhaps a tad too far, we are gonna get fucked because of it.”
Kipper couldn’t help but smile in spite of the sense of frustration that welled up as a bilious taste at the back of his throat whenever he was forced to give due consideration to the antics of Jackson Blackstone. Jed would not let this dog lie, and Kipper supposed he would one day have to thank him for that, but right at the moment, the renegade former general turned politician and his Southern political machine were hardly a more pressing issue than the small war that apparently had broken out in the city below them.
He stole a quick glance out of the small window to his left and shook his head at the dismal scene of a large part of Manhattan shrouded in smoke and flames, with the flash of bomb bursts and rockets clearly visible in the dark gray canyons below midtown as long sparkling chains of yellow and green tracer fire lashed up from street level.
The door guns opened up, spewing a stream of red light down on the city, spattering their rounds against the streets. Lucifer tearing the curtains of Hell came to Kipper’s mind as the brass tinkled away from Marine One. Riflemen took their positions at the rear of the cabin, opening the windows to get a clear shot at whatever might try to kill them. Kipper saw Corporal Peckham swivel his door gun as his brother directed the rest of the detail over his headset.
“RPG! Evasive!” one of the riflemen roared.
Kipper gripped his armrest as the chopper dipped and dropped to the right so suddenly that his stomach felt as though he’d left it a few hundred feet higher up. The door gunner opened up again on an unknown target beneath them, and he caught a black flash out of the corner of his eye as one of the Super Cobras screamed away to lay fire on whatever had caused them to maneuver so violently. The machine gun fire cut off abruptly, and he felt the chopper settle into a new heading that took them directly away from the island. Both Kip and Jed were used to the extremes of flying out of contested airspace, and neither man bothered to check with the air crew. For their part, the crew did not interrupt the presidential party, in line with orders Kipper had issued long ago to just get on with their jobs and not waste time briefing him on every little scare and mishap during flight.
After America Page 16